


Painting

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Dark, Established Relationship, M/M, Sibling Incest, Slurs, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodolphus and Rabastan spend the night together, observed by their lord through a painting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painting

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
> 
> A/N: This isn’t properly British.

Rabastan painted the Malfoy family portrait a day after Draco was born, and it was Narcissa’s favourite present of the year. Lucius hung it proudly in their bedroom.

Then the Dark Lord moved in, and replaced their favourite portrait with his black one of the stars, which allowed him to watch through it, into their room from his own, any time he chose. The Malfoy family portrait was moved to a smaller bedroom, where the Lestranges (all of whom were loyal all along, and follow the Dark Lord wherever he resides) first stayed.

Then Bellatrix was finally given her ultimate wish and allowed to warm the bed of her lord. Rodolphus was left alone, until it became clear that in this house of darkness, Rabastan would not be sent away.

When Bellatrix told her lord everything about her husband—his loyalty, his strengths, his one weakness—the Malfoy family portrait was moved to another room. It was replaced with another dark cosmos, a mirror of both the other copy in the Malfoy’s bedroom, and the original in the Dark Lord’s master suite. Rodolphus and Rabastan are perfectly aware of what the painting is. When they stare too closely, they see their Lord’s red eyes in the stars, and they’ve heard the stories from a shuddering Lucius. But Rodolphus and Rabastan are not as spoiled as Lucius and Narcissa. They haven’t spent the bulk of their lives happily lying in one another’s arms, accepted and free. They’ve spent more than a decade in Azkaban, and a bed is a bed, even if the Dark Lord can see it.

So when Rodolphus returns from a hard day and slips beneath the covers, Rabastan doesn’t turn him away. Rabastan knows the Dark Lord is watching Rodolphus’ strong arms reach out and encircle his brother from behind, spooning him, and only grins at the feeling. The painting is on the other side of the room, directly across from the four-poster bed. The lights are all off, and the dark curtains of the window are drawn, but the yellow stars shine through the acrylic paint like snake eyes.

Rodolphus licks the shell of Rabastan’s ear, and Rabastan shivers. “We raided a muggle town today,” he hisses. Rabastan tilts his head to show that he’s listening. Rodolphus’ hands trail down Rabastan’s side, and he can feel that Rodolphus has already shed his robes. Rabastan sleeps in the nude partially for this purpose, and partially because of the way the Dark Lord eyes him in meetings. If it pleases the Dark Lord to see the Lestrange brothers entangled at night, so be it. Rabastan would do anything for his master, and even more to be with Rodolphus. He’s so enraptured to have that freedom that he doesn’t care who watches. Rodolphus rubs shallowly against him and purrs, “No sign of the Potter boy. But we played with some of the muggles.”

Rabastan’s breath hitches as Rodolphus’ fingers find their way to his nipples, tugging at them gently and pulling them to hardness. Rabastan struggles to listen to his brother’s story; after such solitude in Azkaban, for so long, Rabastan never thought he’d feel human touch again. He thought he’d die an emaciated wretch, not fed and nurtured back to health, by the very master who gave him everything he could ever want. He’ll never be as handsome as he once was, not like Rodolphus has seemed to recover. But he’s getting better. And every new touch is a marvel; his body will always remember. Every feather-light caress is magnified tenfold, a hundredfold, and sets his tired heart to racing.

Rodolphus is impossibly warm against his back, and Rodolphus’ re-growing muscles press into his arching spine. “There was a pale teenager with dark hair,” Rodolphus growls, still nipping at Rabastan’s ear. “He sneered at me just so, and whimpered when I hurt him. He reminded me of you as a boy.”

Rabastan shivers as his brother’s fingers trace his throat: the ghost of a strangle. Azkaban has hardened Rodolphus, and both wars have inflamed the Lestrange insanity. But Rabastan’s always known he was in love with a psychopath, and he got over that long ago. His only question is a husky, whispered, “Did you fuck him?”

Chuckling darkly, Rodolphus lightly squeezes Rabastan’s throat. Rabastan gasps but trusts. Rodolphus’ calloused fingers slide back down his body, and he hisses, “Rabastan, you know your ass is the only one I want.” He kisses the back of Rabastan’s neck, and Rabastan shivers all over.

Rodolphus slips back around Rabastan’s body to squeeze at his ass, and Rabastan’s head rolls back onto his brother’s shoulder. He reaches back and grabs at Rodolphus’ hips, holding him in closer. Rabastan can feel Rodolphus’ hard cock rubbing between his cheeks, and it makes him want _more_.

“Greyback fucked him,” Rodolphus concludes: a dark end to his dark story, as usual. “Tore him to shreds and bit into his neck, and I jerked off on the bruised aftermath.” When Rabastan trembles slightly, Rodolphus coos in a low, growling voice, “But don’t worry, darling. I’d never let that animal touch you...”

Rabastan can’t help but mutter, “Even though you’d love to watch.” Rodolphus’ finger slides between his cheeks and rubs at his puckered hole, and Rabastan gasps.

“Of course I’d love to watch.” Rodolphus’ finger dives in, without any preparation, and Rabastan grits his teeth at the burn. “I’d love to see all of our fellow Death Eaters fuck you, in a steady parade, come all over you and turn you into a whore, a fuck toy.” His teeth scrape the back of Rabastan’s neck roughly, and he finishes in a strangely loving whisper, “But it’s just a fantasy, my dear brother. I’d also never truly want to share you...”

“Like I have to share you with that cunt?” Rabastan hisses, even though he knows it isn’t Rodolphus’ fault.

“Not anymore,” Rodolphus grunts, wriggling his finger deeper. Rabastan grunts when it gets knuckle-deep, scraping his dry walls and making him clench involuntarily. “We have a... mutual understanding.” Rodolphus presses his hard dick against Rabastan’s ass for emphasis.

Rabastan mutters, “I’m sorry,” even though he isn’t.

“That’s alright,” Rodolphus grunts. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.” He pulls back a little, and his finger slips out, and Rabastan hears him spit into his hand. His hole feels oddly empty afterwards, until two fingertips are pressed into the tight ring of muscle, rubbing and trying to nudge inside. Rodolphus could use a spell but doesn’t. He wants it to burn, Rabastan knows, wants it to hurt. Rabastan doesn’t mind. He needs the pain as much as the pleasure, to know it’s still real. He’s bled for his brother before, and he’ll gladly do it again.

When both digits shove inside, Rabastan grunts. Rodolphus isn’t careful, isn’t kind. It’s rough and it stings, and the spit isn’t enough, although Rabastan does find it sickly erotic to have his brother’s saliva in him. His own hand fists in Rodolphus’ bare skin, pale and hard. Rodolphus’ body is always cold as ice until they’re in bed together. Then it’s like fire against Rabastan’s cells, spreading warmth into every corner. They’re both too thin, boned too sharply, and too hard and too rough. Rodolphus’ fingers are long and unforgiving and scissor Rabastan apart gruffly. A third finger is in before he’s ready.

The blankets, of their own accord, go slithering off the bed. Both Lestranges are left exposed, and both keep going. It’s as if Rodolphus didn’t notice. Rabastan’s only reaction is to glance at the painting. Their Lord (and perhaps his mistress) want to see more. He knows this and accepts it, if it’ll let him press his shoulder blades back into Rodolphus’ stiff chest a little longer.

Rodolphus bites at the back of his neck when he’s ready; it’s pain up top to distract from the pain down below. His fingers wrench out, and Rabastan still winces, although he moans when he feels the spongy head of his brother’s cock at his stretched hole. It feels a little wet, probably just with more spit, or maybe precum, but it still won’t be enough. He’s not sure he’s stretched enough, either. Rodolphus’ long cock will take care of that shortly. Rodolphus is holding Rabastan’s cheeks apart and pistons into him sharply.

Rabastan cries out and arches. Rodolphus pays him no mind and continues to shallowly thrust in and out, squeezing a little further every time. Every centimeter is more than Rabastan can take; it’s too thick for him, it’s too big. He clenches tightly around it, and Rodolphus grunts behind him but doesn’t stop. Rodolphus swears unintelligibly, but Rabastan hears it; Rabastan hears everything Rodolphus ever says. Rodolphus is panting messily, and Rabastan’s breathing is hitched and laboured, uneven and difficult. His brain is gone. His heart is thumping erratically in his chest, wracking his pale, wrecked frame. He’s sweating a little, and Rodolphus is sweating more. Rodolphus keeps vigorously humping him, a bit more and a bit farther, until Rabastan can feel Rodolphus’ balls slap his ass, and Rodolphus thighs pound into him. Then everything intensifies.

There are so many sides to Rodolphus—so many that others never see, never notice. He’s complex and unpredictable, but he fucks like a dog and Rabastan knows it. As soon as he’s all the way in, Rodolphus suddenly rolls them over, so he’s on top and Rabastan is flattened into the mattress, his own erection digging into the sheets. He turns his face in the pillows and presses his cheek into it, and Rodolphus touches his back all over, pushing him down and holding him in place. Rodolphus doesn’t put his hands to either side like he does sometimes. He loops his arms under Rabastan like snakes, devious and quick, and holds him up, holds him in. Rodolphus’ rigid bones dig into Rabastan’s chest, Rodolphus’ heavy body still forcing him down, and it makes it harder to breathe, and Rabastan’s own fingers move and clutch at the sheets. Rodolphus slams into him quickly, pulling all the way out to the head every time—unmeasured and un-careful.

“You’re fucking hot,” Rodolphus hisses into his ear without slowing his hips. Rabastan is biting his lip so as not to moan. He’s a Death Eater. Rodolphus makes him a wanton slut.

He lets go to whine quietly, “Rodolphus, don’t.”

Rodolphus doesn’t listen. He never does. “I think about you when I fuck her—I only take her from behind.” His voice is low, but it’s still dangerous. Rabastan’s whimper is cut short by a particularly hard thrust that knocks the air out of his lungs. Rodolphus’ pace is unforgiving and brutal, and he harshly pounds Rabastan into the mattress as he talks. He bites everywhere on Rabastan he can reach, and Rabastan knows he’ll have bruises to spell away tomorrow. Rodolphus isn’t in a little-love-bite mood; he’s in a territorial, marking haze, so rough and so hard. “I wish you sat on my lap in meetings and rode my cock in front of all of them. I’d bend you over the dining room table and fuck your pretty brains into the hardwood, with knives and forks digging into your stomach. The minute you came out of Mother, I knew you were _mine_.”

Rabastan shivers. Rodolphus’ madness doesn’t scare him. It never does. It makes his cock harder in the mattress. He’d rub into it if he had any form of control. But all he can do is go where Rodolphus takes him. Rodolphus slams him so hard into the sheets it’s all he can do to stay conscious, and the burn and searing pain in his tight, dry ass is exquisite. His head is so thick with lust he can barely breathe. Rodolphus doesn’t even try to find his prostate, and it happens only sporadically, every few thrusts. It’s always unexpected, and each sudden burst of intense pleasure makes Rabastan moan loudly, clawing at the pillows. When Rodolphus runs hard teeth down the side of his throat, Rabastan whimpers and growls, “Yours, brother.”

Only a Lestrange is good enough for a Lestrange.

Rabastan’s never wanted anything else. He’s had Rodolphus for as long as he can remember. Not always like this, but as soon as Rodolphus deemed him old enough it was. Whenever they could get away, every moment alone together. Rodolphus taught him Occlumency. They don’t use it anymore. Azkaban was maddening, being apart. It’s left Rabastan a scattered mess, and he needs Rodolphus all the time—craves him every second.

Nights like this he savours, every one. He doesn’t care that Rodolphus is married, and he doesn’t care about the painting. He cares about the heavy, reassuring weight of his brother, boring down into his back, covering him and protecting him, being there. Rodolphus’ musky, masculine scent overwhelms him. Rodolphus’ clawing hands are so warm, so warm like Rabastan never is on his own. The air is filled with panting and slapping, skin on skin, and gasps, grunts, and moans. Rabastan luxuriates in every noise, every movement, and shifts his head to the other side when his neck starts to hurt. He keeps his eyes scrunched closed, teeth grit together.

Rodolphus licks Rabastan’s cheek, long and wet, like the madman he is. He’s Rabastan’s madman. He’s stopped biting. He presses his cheek into Rabastan’s, and they’re glued together, and it makes Rabastan feels too loved and too perfect. Rodolphus fucks him even more violently, if possible, getting closer. He’s going to explode any second. He’s going to be stiff and ache from this, but he doesn’t care. It’s like Rodolphus is on a mission to fuck his brains right out of his skull, and it’s working.

Rabastan’s a heady mess and barely catches it as Rodolphus pants atop him, “Getting close.”

Rabastan opens his mouth, and his tongue hangs out as he struggles for the words. Rodolphus’ gorgeous cock is so huge; it makes him so full. Fucks him so hard. He wants to be more eloquent, but all he can manage is, “Fuck me.”

“Gonna come in you,” Rodolphus grunts, and the words make Rabastan tremble in his brother’s arms. “Gonna fill you with my seed, dear brother, the same as yours...” Rodolphus’ hands slip lower under his body, until they’re roughly holding his hips up, to make every thrust deeper, better. Rabastan can’t be shoved forward or slammed back; he’s held in place like a toy and used. Rabastan can hear Rodolphus’ heavy heartbeat in his ears, and Rodolphus bites the side of his jaw.

Then one of Rodolphus’ hands crawls to Rabastan’s dick and wraps around it firmly. Rabastan instantly cries out and tries to buck into it, tries to get more friction. Rodolphus chuckles and still controls it. “You’re mine,” he repeats, in a low, dangerous hiss. “You’re mine, mine, _mine_.”

Rabastan repeats the same in his head. Mine, mine, mine. Rodolphus is his, and always will be, no matter who’s behind the painting. No matter what other marks they take, no matter what other rings they wear. Rodolphus was his first, will always be his, will die his. Rodolphus is tonguing his ear again. The whisper that follows is so quiet, Rabastan isn’t even sure if it’s said out loud, or if it’s only a whisper of Rodolphus in Legilimency.

_“I love you.”_

Rabastan comes immediately. His orgasm rips through his body like a savage fire, starting at his ear and crawling to his toes, encasing his entire being and wrapping it in pleasure. He screams, “Rodolphus!” so loud that he’s sure it’s reverberating on the other side of the painting. He arches into Rodolphus and throws his head back, and his ass clenches around Rodolphus’ mammoth cock, and he shoots his cum all over Rodolphus’ hand. He isn’t even through his own turmoil when Rodolphus explodes inside him, thrusting and staying deep inside him, filling him up so much he could burst.

Rodolphus thrusts out his orgasm without ever really leaving Rabastan’s ass. Rabastan’s already collapsed as Rodolphus slams it all out, and then falls heftily atop him. Rodolphus stays exactly where he is, chest rising and retracting against Rabastan’s back, and Rabastan doesn’t ask him to move.

Rabastan closes his eyes and enjoys the strong arms still around him.

Because he didn’t have time to say it during, and his head is still foggy, Rabastan mumbles almost too quietly for human ears, “I love you, too.”

Rodolphus kisses the back of his head. He rolls off. Rabastan tries to resist, but can’t, and shifts over to snuggle into Rodolphus’ side.

That’s when the blanks lift themselves up off the floor, hovering in mid-air like charmed snakes. They slither up the bed and wrap themselves around Rabastan and Rodolphus, tucking them in fondly. Rabastan glances back at the painting and wonders if their Lord enjoyed the show.

Rabastan did—he always does.

Judging from Rodolphus steady sleep-breathing, he did, too.


End file.
